


They Speak Above the Drowning City

by Brackets_002



Series: Beyond the Pale and related works [2]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, F/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 12:03:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18604147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brackets_002/pseuds/Brackets_002
Summary: In between their busy lives, two old friends steal some time to talk together, reminisce, and be closer to each other than either of them are to anyone else.





	They Speak Above the Drowning City

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenEgg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenEgg/gifts).



> This was a Christmas present to my close friend QueenEgg back in 2017. At the time it didn't feel right to post a personal gift like this publicly, because it belongs to her. But I'm going through some of my old writing right now and found it, and she's given me permission to post it, so what the hell. After Veneration it'd almost be weirder not to.
> 
> This uses the Beyond the Pale universe as a basis, but it's not canon to that world and takes place several years after an ending that I haven't written yet. No major spoilers are revealed in this story.

She hadn’t wanted a palace. In her earliest days as queen, Hornet had ruled the reborn Hallownest with both a ruthlessness and a dignity that had, to her outrage, prompted Emilitia to compare her to her father. That the rich bug had intended this as a compliment did nothing to lessen Hornet’s anger with her, or with herself for allowing the comparison to be made. She hadn't lessened her ruthlessness in response, and her regal stoicism had remained totally intact as far as the public was concerned, but she had taken steps to distance herself from his image in other ways. She pointedly never wore white. She carried her needle in plain view wherever she went. She began stopping to lend help to bugs who needed it. And although she remained an elusive and rarely-seen figure like the Pale King had, she did not go so far as to hide herself away in a castle buried far under the city where nobody could find it. No, the Red Queen of Hallownest, as citizens had begun calling her, had instead chosen to occupy the highest point of the City of Tears.

It suited her better, Quirrel had thought, and he thought it again now as he stared up through the rain at the former Watcher’s Spire scraping the roof of the cavern. Hornet was a pragmatic bug, not one to care much about the posturing and elegance of a palace—well, beyond what theatrics she used to present herself as regal and intimidating. She wouldn't have found any use for an enormous, labyrinthine palace any more than she had use for the enormously long white dress that she had been gifted by the surviving aristocrats in an attempt to gain her favor. Besides, this way she wasn’t hiding like he had. The bugs of Hallownest knew exactly where their Queen was: watching over them all, as a monarch ought to.

Quirrel lowered his head, dashing out from under the cover of the doorway he had paused at and hurrying through the cold rain of the city. His feet clicked on the cobblestone of the street and splashed through puddles where they had sank slightly over the years. The endless rain bounced off the stone and collected in the cracks between them; while that often meant one of these depressions, it usually caused the water to drain into the canals which crisscrossed the city and which Quirrel had to occasionally leap over. He could feel the rain already soaking through his hood and running in rivulets down his face before he had even passed the fountain, but he paused almost midstep before the Memorial to the Hollow Knight, taking time to reflect again on the addition Hornet had commissioned.

Beneath the Hollow Knight stood a much smaller figure, carved in just as much detail, their simple, tattered cloak looking almost shabby next to their larger sibling’s elegant robes. The rain dripped off the points of their horns and ran down the statue’s smooth stone face, pooling briefly in the eye holes before running down in thin streams to fall from its chin. To see Ghost crying, even as just a statue in the rain, broke Quirrel’s heart in a way he didn’t quite know how to express, but he didn’t tear his gaze away for a few minutes, the chill of the rain almost unnoticed. Finally he looked down, away from the statue of Ghost, and reread the inscription in the fountain’s base.

_Memorial to the Vessels, who returned to the darkness to consume the Light. Through their sacrifices Hallownest lives again._

He wished he had been there. Not because he wanted to have seen Ghost sacrifice themselves, but he felt that they had deserved to be among friends in the end. Quirrel was glad he could honor their memory at least through his work. He took a few Geo from his bag and tossed them into the fountain before moving on.

He was completely drenched by the time he reached cover again, and he took a few seconds to take his hood off and wring it out as he walked to the nearest elevator. The material of his bag had a coating of beeswax, so he wasn’t particularly worried about the contents, but he took a minute to brush away a few errant drops of water as he reached the small metal lift and flicked the top switch. The platform under him shifted, rattled, and began to rise. As it reached the floor above Quirrel pulled his hood back on and took out his Hallownest Seal. It was distinct from the Seals of the King’s era in that the four horns that had resembled the Wyrm’s horns had been replaced with those of Ghost and the Hollow Knight. Quirrel had asked at the time of their creation why she hadn’t commissioned her own horns on the Seal, and the answer she had given was the same reason she avoided much monument to herself; others would glorify her in eons to come. To do it herself would give her one more way she was like her father. He didn’t quite see her logic--Hornet had more than earned the right to mark her own symbols on her kingdom. Quirrel would have proudly worn a Seal with horns modeled off of Hornet’s.

Much of the city’s more superficial infrastructure had been altered and replaced over the last few years: Quirrel had stairs to climb to even reach the base of the Spire, and he took them at a quick pace. The exercise was good for him. It also meant that he needed to pause for a moment at the top of the stairs, catching his breath and feeling his heart slow back down. The guards behind the grating nearby stared at him curiously as he held up a finger, asking them to wait, before walking to the gate and showing them his Hallownest Seal.

“Name?”

“Quirrel,” he replied, and watched as the guards pulled down a brass pipe from the ceiling, ending in a flared tip like a small gramophone. They spent a minute speaking into it, and even if the reply was tinny, faint, and indistinct, Quirrel’s spirits still jumped slightly as he heard Hornet’s voice come through from the other side. Then the guard pulled a lever to open the gate, and as he walked through a second gate opened through a lever somewhere high above, allowing him access to the elevator.

After this elevator was another and then he passed through a wide room lit by chandeliers, one that he remembered finding filled with the remains of dozens of enormous, armored guards. The corpses had been hacked apart with slashes he had come to recognize as Ghost’s handiwork. It might never have stopped astonishing him how much the little Vessel had been able to accomplish in such a short time. He crossed the room and ascended the spiral staircase that had been installed at its far end, At its top was a large set of chambers full of chests, some of which he knew the contents of, some that remained a mystery to him, and all of which he ignored as he climbed one last (blessed) flight of stairs.

Hornet stood waiting for him at the top. Quirrel straightened up as he saw her, smiling brightly and climbing the last few steps with a renewed spring in his heels. She had grown since he had first met her, now noticeably taller than he was even without her large pale horns, and her wine-red cloak had white threads of silk woven in to form intricate patterns reminiscent of both the work of the Weavers and Herrah, and the architecture of the Queen’s Gardens. She carried her needle in one hand, but it seemed more a formality than anything, for she held it loosely and looked at Quirrel without the hard gaze she gave most bugs.

“Queen Hornet,” said Quirrel, the title sounding more like a teasing jab than a true gesture of adoration. “Well met. I hope my lack of contact for the last few weeks haven’t bothered you; my students and I are on the verge of a breakthrough in the Archives. Lately I’ve found it nearly impossible to tear myself away from such fascinating work, but tonight I decided no excuse would keep me from a visit.”

“Your presence is appreciated, Quirrel,” replied Hornet evenly, “as is your dedication to providing it. Tonight I, too, happen to be without appointment for the first time in awhile, and so your visit is a welcome one. Let’s talk up in my spire.” She turned and led him to the elevator, ignoring most of the glass room just beyond —the Menderbugs turned carpenters she had personally employed had told her that the framework resembling the King’s horns could not be removed without threatening the structure of the entire room, so she reserved this atrium for political business with the other kingdoms and little else. Quirrel had been in that room before, but noted the formal-looking table set up there with a curious hum before Hornet clicked the elevator switch and the lift began the long journey up to the Spire.

It was her, surprisingly, who broke the pause in their conversation. “What’s in your bag?” she asked; no paranoia colored her words, just curiosity. When Quirrel’s answer was simply to open the top flap and show her, she leaned a little closer to see among a few scrolls and stone tablets a glass bottle of a golden liquid. “Mead? Our supply of honey isn’t plentiful enough for that to have become affordable. To share a bottle so casually--”

“We haven’t shared a drink in much too long,” Quirrel interrupted. “I learned of a recipe for mulled mead that I’d like very much to share. Please, I insist. If it was such a large drain on my finances I wouldn’t have bought the bottle.”

If Hornet had had any further protests, she would have voiced them. Instead she watched through the window of the elevator shaft as the city fell away beneath them one building at a time and water ran in rivulets down the glass. She relaxed her still, regal posture and leaned against the metal column at the corner of the elevator, and though Quirrel pretended to watch the city outside sink farther and farther below, his mind was almost completely on the crimson-clothed bug beside him.

He couldn't for the life of him recall why he had ever been surprised to learn that Hornet was Ghost’s sister. She had a similar form to theirs, a body black as Void topped by a mask like porcelain, as pale as their father had been. She had the same kind of air to her, even when relaxed like this; a sense of quiet dignity and palpable strength had been present in every fiber of Ghost’s being, and he had seen the same in Hornet from their first meeting to now. Only a hair more emotive than a Vessel’s expressionless visage, her stoic nature Quirrel simultaneously found worrisome and awe-inspiring. She had confessed to him once that she was ashamed of her inability to control her own sadness and anger, but Quirrel had never seen her visibly express one of those in a moment when he himself would have been anything less than hysterical.

Eventually the elevator reached the Spire and the view of the city below was interrupted by the large metal telescope that Lurien had used long ago to live up to his title. They both turned away from it for now and Hornet led Quirrel to the simple cooking setup she had had made. Even if he used a proper pot to heat the mead, he couldn’t help but harken back to their meeting in the Kingdom’s edge, cooking a soup in honey over a campfire like cave bugs. Quirrel tried to banish the thought from his mind; it had been that meeting in which she had told him—no. He was visiting her now, and they were sharing an enjoyable moment and a recipe. It wouldn’t do to start crying again.

Turning halfway to see Hornet behind him as he continued stirring, he said, “Actually, I bought this bottle for a very reasonable price. The merchant who sold it to me even allowed some room to haggle. I presume that means our relations with the Hive continue to improve?”

Hornet nodded. “The Hive’s new Queen only just emerged from her cocoon,” she said, a slight tone of satisfaction seeping into her voice. “She seems to admire me. Our diplomatic meetings consist largely of her asking for advice, although I’ve made clear to her that she must learn to have confidence in her own decisions. I have clearer memories of Vespa than any of the bees that survived the infection; she holds that fact in very high esteem. It’s often me placing more conditions on Hallownest’s imports from the Hive than her.”

“Oh no!” But Quirrel couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice at the image of Hornet talking a young Hive Queen through the finer points of a trade deal. He added a spice from the Greenpath to the mead as he continued, “I hope you aren’t taking advantage of her naivety. Another monarch would jump on the opportunity to build a surplus of honey and wax with so little trouble.”

“Of course not,” said Hornet as though it was obvious. “If I cared nothing for the Hive’s population I would never have helped them rebuild their infrastructure. I am careful to ensure they have as much food and metal work as they need and that Hallownest doesn’t take more of their products than they can easily supply. Be careful, it’s starting to boil…”

So it was. Quirrel hastily took the pot away and asked Hornet to put out the fire, and as she did so he poured a generous serving of mulled mead into each of the two cups they had set out. Gently he handed one of the mugs to her and allowed her to lead the way to wherever she most liked to sit when idle—which turned out to be the stool beneath the telescope, wide enough that the two of them could sit together without being too cramped. Hornet took an experimental sip as they sat beside each other, offering a complimentary word to Quirrel at his recipe, and as they continued to drink together he shared an anecdote about how Perip had been given it by a Menderbug grateful that she had convinced an elder baulder to leave a corridor of the Crossroads. The mention of the former God Tamer brought them to talk about the deconstruction of the old Colosseum, but that line of dialogue brought a slightly irritated tone to Hornet’s voice and Quirrel cut it off with a query about her use of Soul. Her answer led to discussion of the last Snail Shaman, and then to idle speculation about the source of Soul in hot springs.

As their mugs ran empty, Quirrel brought over the bottle of mead and they began passing it back and forth, taking turns drinking a little of it as they continued to talk. The Archives had some documentation about hot springs and their odd properties, he explained in a slightly slurred voice, but they hadn’t deciphered enough from that section to have a definite answer. All they knew now was that it originated from wherever the water’s source was, not from the basin it collected in.

“Which I think is good,” he added as a side note, his head drooping slightly as the room slowly spun around him. “Imagine if the Soul came from something in the water being killed by the heat. Wouldn’t that be cruel? Although I suppose it would be one more reason to find the Pleasure House uncomfortable.” He laughed at his own joke, passing the bottle back to Hornet, and then had to take a moment to process the sound of her brief giggle. He turned to her with wide eyes and a growing smile. “…Did you…”

“I’m drunk.”

“You laughed at my joke.” Quirrel’s eyes had lit up; he seemed to almost float with happiness.

“I’m _drunk_ ,” Hornet repeated insistently, then raised the bottle to her mouth only to find it empty. “Oh—see? Drunk. Perhaps we both are. You’ve become even more emotional than normal as we’ve spoken.” She was staring over the city as she spoke, and when she felt Quirrel’s head resting on her shoulder her gaze only flickered towards the sight before continuing to gaze at the dark, rainy skyline. “We’ve sat here drinking for far too long. I ought to kick you out and turn in. Hallownest needs us both tomorrow and we’ve been unprofessional enough for one night.”

She stood. So did Quirrel, but he did so with far less grace and stumbled when he tried to take a step. As Hornet let him brace himself against her, she heard him muttering, “You’re so… _perfect_ , even when you’re drunk…is that what happens when you’re…when you’re…when you’re…part-Void? You’re perfect, l-like Ghost was…” she sighed as she heard his voice break, his weight sagging against her. “… Ghost…” Quirrel repeated, his eyes misty and wet.

“I see,” Hornet said. “You would die trying to make it back to your home like this. In lieu, I propose you sleep here and take tomorrow off of work. The Archives can surely survive one day without your guidance.”

“I want to be there,” his voice rasped. He had started crying.

“We’ll see how you are when you wake up, then.”

She guided him, although perhaps carrying him would be a more accurate description, to the small cot she slept in near the opposite windows of the Spire. When Hornet had refurbished this place into her living quarters, the Menderbugs had suggested they convert the stone dais that had once dominated the room into a luxurious bed, but she had found long ago that even normal beds were far too soft for her liking. Removing the dais altogether, and choosing to sleep on a cot, allowed her to use the majority of the room for more practical purposes than sleep and for sleep itself to not dull her reflexes. She now helped Quirrel lay down on the cot, shedding her cloak and draping it over him like a blanket.

“If you need me, call,” she muttered, kneeling by his tear-stained face. Standing, naked, she moved away only to find herself stopped short by Quirrel’s hand on hers.

“Stay,” he slurred between sobs. “Don’…”

“I will not share a bed with you, Quirrel,” Hornet said bluntly. “Neither of us has any interest in putting down the gossip the act would warrant.”

“Don’ _leave_ ,” he managed to cry at last; in an attempt to keep holding her hand, he had slid partially out from under the cloak. “… _Don’ leave like I did_ …”

Hornet fell silent, staring at her friend as he cried. She had been no good at comfort the first time she had watched him weep at the memory of her sibling; only slightly better now, she found herself struggling with what to do, with only one clear option presenting itself. Stepping closer, she used her other hand to push him back into bed. “Roll over,” she ordered, “so my horns don’t stab you.” She helped him do so before slipping under the wine-red cloak with him.

She was taller than him now, and though his body didn’t exactly fit into her thinner frame, she still bent her knees to match how he did the same and draped one arm over him. Hornet could hear Quirrel’s crying lessen in volume, and as his hands stroked the fine, sensitive hair that coated her black shell, she gently nuzzled his head from behind. Their shared warmth underneath the cloak was more comfortable than Hornet would have liked to admit, but Quirrel accepted it without hesitation and pressed himself a little closer into Hornet’s embrace.

“Thank you,” he whispered, already beginning to drift off.

“It’s no trouble,” she murmured back, but he was already asleep. She could have released his arm now and pushed him away, but the thought seemed… distasteful to her, even aside from being cruel. Intimacy was foreign to her, an odd puzzle she never felt she had solved—but that didn’t make it unwelcome, and she would admit to herself that the shared warmth was pleasant. Her grip tightened around Quirrel, not loosened. Closing her eyes, she pulled him a little closer, and the morning found them like that, fast asleep.


End file.
